Boychik

By Laurie Boris

Eli Abramowitz cures meat and makes pickles in his parents' deli in Williamsburg. Not a bad job during the Depression. His family is his whole world—almost. He spends every Sunday at the movies and hopes to hit it big as a Hollywood screenwriter. But how can he tell his parents that one day he'll be leaving?

 

Evelyn Rosenstein's father works for the mob—undoubtedly the reason they're doing so well. Definitely the reason she's not allowed any farther than their mailbox unescorted. Even though her parents have chosen a husband for her, a family tradition, she fantasizes about a life in service to the unfortunate. But for the moment, she dreams of escape, if only for a few hours.

 

Opportunity strikes, and she ends up at the deli. Evelyn and Eli meet only briefly, but their instant connection tempts an unlikely, forbidden romance. When a charity dinner has them again crossing paths, danger follows. But will it shadow them into their futures?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laurie Boris
• Release date: Nov 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9798227706478

Laurie Boris

Laurie Boris has been writing fiction for thirty years and is the award-winning author of nine novels. When not hanging out with the universe of imaginary people in her head, she enjoys baseball, cooking, and reading. She lives in New York's lovely Hudson Valley.

Book preview

1

BROOKLYN, 1932

People cursed at Eli in English and Yiddish as he navigated the broad, April-puddled intersection of Union and Grand, dodging streetcars and pedestrians and automobile drivers honking their horns. He’d been running late to meet his cousin at the movies, and it seemed all of Williamsburg had conspired, from the hazards of black umbrellas to inconveniently placed food vendors, to keep Eli from his destination.

But finally he was closing in.

Cousin Artie stood beneath the Orpheum marquee, nonchalantly perusing the latest issue of True Detective Mysteries, the strap of his book bag across his skinny chest.

Eli had spied that book bag somewhere between nearly getting the point of someone’s umbrella in his eye and the sweet potato man calling him a klutz.

The book bag could only mean—

As Eli’s feet found purchase on the sidewalk, he gasped out the words, Did he write back?

Artie’s movements were slow, maddeningly slow. Eli had a strong suspicion his cousin—also seventeen, but younger by two months—was doing that on purpose. He carefully closed his magazine, eased it into the leather bag, and peered up at him through his thick, round spectacles.

I’m sorry, Eli. There’s been no mail for you this week.

Eli eyeballed the worn, well-oiled satchel as if it actually did contain a letter from Mr. Jack Warner of Warner Brothers and Artie was only teasing him.

Artie gave the bag a loving pat. It had been his father’s. I just didn’t want to crease the magazine. I’m saving all the issues that have installments of ‘I Am a Fugitive from a Georgia Chain Gang!’ in them. I read that they’ll be making it into a movie at the end of the year.

Eli supposed he shouldn’t feel so disappointed. Undoubtedly Mr. Warner was a busy man. But he’d been waiting for such a long—

He’ll write back. Artie smiled. I’m sure he will. It’s a wonderful script. He cocked his head, scrutinizing Eli again. But there’s something else troubling you.

Artie could always tell when something else was troubling him. Eli dug into his right trouser pocket and pulled out two quarters for their movie tickets. I don’t want to talk about it.

After Mr. Finkenthal tore their tickets, they found their usual seats, center, fourth row from the back. Eli unwrapped the pastrami on rye he’d made for them at the deli, thankful that it had survived his helter-skelter trip across Williamsburg in his jacket, and handed Artie half.

Their silence, except for chewing, lasted through the coming attractions. One with Barbara Stanwyck. One with Joan Blondell. Their feminine appeal was obvious to Eli. Their motivation? Often as clear as the smoke rising from the Brooklyn Navy Yard.

Women, Artie. Women are a mystery to me.

But you like mysteries, Artie said. Remember the last one we saw? You thought the chauffeur did it, but I was certain it was the man with the monocle...

Eli laughed, a little sadly, addressing the remains of his sandwich. This is a different kind of mystery. A wholly different mystery that I don’t know how to begin to solve. In a million years, I don’t know that I’ll ever figure it out.

Is this about the furrier’s daughter?

Laura. The knot of tension in Eli’s chest began to loosen. I thought we were getting along, getting to be friendly. When I deliver their lunch order, she signs for it, and then we talk a little. I thought she liked me. She has such a nice laugh. He couldn’t stop a wistful smile. She even touched my arm once, when she thanked me for bringing extra mustard. Then yesterday, I asked if maybe she’d like to go for a walk or get a soda one of these days.

Something tells me this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

It had an ending all right. He lost his appetite, scrunched the paper around the last few bites and shoved it into his pocket. You know, I used to like that laugh. But not when she laughed in my face and said, and I quote, ‘I don’t see any future for myself that involves a deli-man’s boy who smells like the inside of a pickle barrel.’

The lights faded to black. The two cousins slumped in their seats and the newsreel—something about President Hoover promising a swift end to America’s economic woes—spooled up.

Well, that was a rude thing to say, Artie said. A person can communicate something unfortunate like that without being rude. It’s simple human decency.

No kidding. And it gets worse. Last night Pop and I were down in the basement putting up the corned beef, and I tell him, and he says maybe I’m shooting too high. That I should stick to my own.

She’s not Jewish?

Yes, she’s Jewish. But too rich for our blood. Those were Pop’s exact words. And I quote.

Then she’s not the girl for you. Artie dabbed at his mouth with a threadbare handkerchief, folded it neatly, and stuck it back in his pocket. She is right about one thing, and I’m not intentionally trying to be rude, but you do smell like the inside of a pickle barrel.

Eli groaned. He’d tried everything. His mother’s brown laundry soap, the industrial cleanser they kept in the kitchen, even the cut lemons his father swore by. Nothing worked for him. It didn’t help that their family’s apartment was right above the deli. The onions, the dill, the vinegar, everything... It permeated his clothing, his sheets and pillows and mattress, his books and typing paper. Mr. Warner had even noticed. In his last letter, he waxed nostalgic that Eli’s scripts smelled like the delis of his childhood.

It might not be all that bad, Artie said. Maybe you’ll find a girl who likes that.

When pigs fly. Yeah, and maybe I’ll be as big as Dashiell Hammett.

You’ll be bigger.

Artie’s optimism, usually helpful, did little to boost Eli’s spirits. Get outta here. Bigger than Dashiell Hammett. Bigger than Sam Spade.

The flashlight of doom cut in their direction, followed closely by Mr. Finkenthal’s voice: Can the chatter, you little pishers.

They sank lower.

Bigger, Artie said under his breath. As the titles for Scarface began, he continued. And I’ll be right there in Hollywood with you. Just don’t tell my mother.

"Just don’t tell my mother. Because she’ll tell Pop, and I’ll be making pickles for the rest of my—"

Hey. Don’t make me toss you two outta here again.

Sorry, Mr. Finkenthal, Artie stage-whispered. We’ll be quiet now. He leaned closer to Eli. Next week bring an extra sandwich for him.

2

EVELYN SIGHED INTO the kitchen pantry at the neat, soldierly lines of canned goods with their colorful labels, the sacks of flour and sugar, the fancy items shipped in from Europe. Snails. Why on earth do we need snails? Her family hadn’t kept kosher at home since she was a child, in their old neighborhood in Greenpoint, but snails seemed like something her bubbe would definitely call traif. In addition to grossly extravagant.

We have so much, she said to her mother, who was updating her social calendar at the kitchen table. And so many people are going hungry. Couldn’t we at least donate some of it?

Her mother’s answer was a cutting glance—a narrowing of her pencil-thin brows and a pursing of her small, painted lips. Be grateful, Evelyn. Your father takes good care of us. You’re a lucky girl. When you marry Harold Weissman, he’ll take good care of you, too.

Cheeks flaming with guilt, Evelyn thought of the gold-and-ruby locket he’d presented for her seventeenth birthday, one that his mother had obviously picked out. She couldn’t bring herself to wear it. She sensed her mother’s eyes boring accusingly into her unadorned throat, felt the question on her lips.

I have schoolwork, Evelyn said. How long until dinner?

The question faded. The rosebud mouth tightened.

Your father and I are going to the theater tonight, so Mary will be serving at six.

The evening meal was mostly a quiet affair—the Rosensteins’ usual dance of silverware on china plates and her mother’s attempts to lift the conversation—and after her parents left for the theater, Evelyn took refuge upstairs. Her second-floor bedroom faced the back courtyard; it had a window seat overlooking their peaceful, tree-lined neighborhood. The best in Brooklyn Heights, her father had crowed. In this cozy perch, she read and wrote and daydreamed. It was above the kitchen, and often she sat there after dinner, accompanied by the clink of dishes, the running water, the Irish songs Mary their housekeeper sang while she worked.

In that window seat Evelyn revised her latest scathing letter to the editor of the New York Star, adding her disgust about the crowd her parents might see at the theater, admiring one another’s finery while so many people could not afford new shoes for their children.

As she was refilling her fountain pen, she sensed movement, a shadow crossing the yard. The shadow looked like a man, and that man tapped softly on the back door.

She’d seen the man before, on other evenings when her parents weren’t home.

Hush now, you’ll wake the neighborhood, she heard Mary say. The door opened and slender arms pushed a covered basket toward the man. He grabbed the basket with one hand and Mary with the other. Bless you, my darling, he said, and then he was gone.

She knew Mary was giving the man their leftovers, and so far, Evelyn had said nothing. But that time, she padded downstairs and came face to face with Mary, who blushed as red as her hair. Evening, miss. She pulled her sweater tighter around her slim figure. Is there something you need, miss?

I-I saw the man.

Mary drew a hand to her mouth and began to fumble out excuses, apologies. Entreaties not to tell her parents, because she needed this job so very badly.

It’s all right, Evelyn said. In fact, I think what you’re doing is a fine thing. I wish we would do more. I don’t believe my parents are of the same mind, so we’ll keep this between us.

The Irish woman sighed, her shoulders dropping in relief.

Can I help? Evelyn said.

Our church is always in need. Mary tucked a curl behind her ear. Food. Clothing. Personal items and the like, for those poor souls who have nowhere to sleep. I would never ask this of you and yours, but I could hardly stop you if you found it in your heart to share.

Evelyn took off her pearl bracelet and handed it to Mary, who blushed even redder than before.

Oh. I couldn’t possibly. That was a gift from your grandmother. It’s so dear to you. 

Evelyn had a feeling her bubbe would approve. She missed her terribly. Her grandmother had been a generous woman with a bright smile and twinkling eyes. If you said you liked her scarf or her ear bobs, she would very likely take them off and hand them to you. She raised money with the Hadassah ladies to send to the Jewish children in Palestine. Surely one bracelet wouldn’t matter. If her mother noticed, Evelyn could say she lost it. Since the hard times started, she’d lost several bits of jewelry, clothing, things she would never miss. Even the sack lunches she brought to school often ended up on park benches or in hungrier students’ hands.

I have a feeling she’d like you to have it. To do with as you see best.

Bless you, miss.

Holding her head a bit higher, Evelyn returned to her writing.

It wasn’t the first letter she’d send to the New York Star, and it wouldn’t be her last. She’d written articles for the school paper, fundraising letters for her grandmother’s causes, appeals to her local representatives, and letters to the editors of all the newspapers she could find. The Star had published several of her letters—under a pen name—all on the theme of what should be done to put people back to work and help those in need. She thought she was flying under her parents’ notice until a few nights later, when her father asked to speak with her.

Abe Rosenstein was an imposing man, thick and tall, his posture hunched forward like he’d spent much of his life pushing a big rock up a hill. Sometimes it made him look sad, a gentle monster forever burdened, but other times—well. She was grateful that when she’d seen him terribly angry, he hadn’t been angry with her.

He’d just come home from work, his shirt wrinkled and his hat in his hand and the newspaper under his arm, their driver Morris dismissed for the night, sliding off along the dark, rain-damp street.

We have to have a little talk, you and me. He waved the newspaper at her. The Star. Evelyn went wobbly in the ankles. But he didn’t look especially angry. Just tired. Does he know I wrote—?

I hear you’ve been giving your lunches away.

Evelyn froze for a different reason. Had someone told on her? She wouldn’t put it past some of those snooty girls in her school. Apparently Evelyn’s expression tipped him off. She reminded her face who was in charge.

Your mother makes those lunches special for you. Don’t be giving them away, Evvie.

Mom makes them...not Mary? But still— Papa, it’s not right. It’s not fair!

He flipped the newspaper onto the side table and sat down on the couch with a flumph. Life ain’t fair, sunshine.

She hated how he always said that. But she recognized an opportunity. Evelyn perched on the cushion beside her father, gave him what she hoped was an imploring gaze. If we can do something about it, why not—?

His glare shut her down. You don’t think I give? You don’t think my business gives? He pointed a long, gnarled index finger at her. Never take it for granted, the good things you have. The clothes on your back, Morris to take you wherever you need to go. We’re all right, not as good as we were, not as bad as some, but we’ve got. Some don’t. I know. You see in the papers, the people with no work, on line for a meal. Who do you think pays for those meals? Who do you think is taking some of those poor schlubs, those men with children at home younger than you, taking them off the street and giving them jobs?

She looked up at him.

Yeah. Yeah. I do. We take care of our own. So you don’t have to sacrifice.

She nodded, words sticking in her throat. Sacrifice. Have you ever considered what I’m being forced to sacrifice, never allowed to travel as far as the mailbox without a chaperone, eyes on me wherever I go?

He reached for his paper. Now go do your schoolwork. Your mother will call you when dinner’s ready. Which I assume you’re hungry for since you went without lunch.

She swallowed, mumbling, Thank you, Papa, and started to get up.

Evvie? His voice was quiet but with an edge that tightened her stomach and glued her to the spot.

Yes, Papa?

Where’s your grandmother’s bracelet?

Her lower lip quivered as she readied her story of having lost it, but before she could speak, he took something from his pocket and dropped it into her lap. The pearl bracelet. She quickly slipped it onto her wrist and was about to offer an apology, that she only gave it to Mary because of the poor people, and why did she need something so extravagant—

Don’t worry, he said. We won’t be seeing Mary around here anymore.

Evelyn’s mouth rounded.

I won’t tolerate thieves in my house. He shook his head, smiling a flat smile of triumph. She and her sweetheart were running a regular racket. She’d sneak whatever she could grub out to him, and he’d go pawn it and spend it at the track. Don’t think I don’t know what goes on around here.

Evelyn again froze. Her father’s face softened. Yeah. You liked her. But as I said. Life ain’t fair. If it were fair, I’d have turned her in to the cops. A fine thing. We give her a good wage and she steals not just your bracelet but your mother’s diamond engagement ring. And—he handed her a small box from his pocket—a certain somebody’s locket that a little bird told me a certain somebody doesn’t wear.

She closed her shaky fingers around it, unable to lift her gaze from the little turquoise box, from the name of the store embossed in silver on its lid. Any other girl in her class would go crackers if presented with even the smallest trinket in the trademark box, especially from a boy like Harold Weissman, but this particular item left her cold. She dared a glance into her father’s eyes. Her mouth went dry at the shadow of anger in them. At the implication that a certain somebody should be wearing the locket, if she knew what was good for her.

But then the clouds passed, and he smirked, and for the briefest of moments, he was Papa again. The Papa who told her funny stories about coming to America, the Papa who took her for long drives in the country, just the two of them. Before they left their little house in Greenpoint. Before—

He snorted, the derisive sound forcing Evelyn back to the present, to the implications of the box in her palm. What kind of schlemiel do you have to be to try to pawn jewelry like that? he continued. Engraved and everything. Not a brain in his head. Oh, it’s good I got friends all over. Guy who owns the shop called me right away.

Evelyn had considered, for a guilty second, giving away the locket and pretending she’d lost it, but she wouldn’t have dared to hand Mary her mother’s diamond ring. So...she was truly stealing? And those baskets she pushed out the back door. Evelyn felt awfully stupid. I didn’t know. Papa, I had no idea...

Don’t worry yourself, Evvie. He leaned toward her and planted a light kiss on the top of her head before making for the cart in the corner of the living room to fix himself a scotch. There was no way you could have known. Right?

3

MORRIS MADE A LUDICROUS sight in the fussy chauffeur’s uniform, a rough man like him, down to the cap that looked tiny on his giant head. Early on in his employment, when she came downstairs in the morning to find him slurping coffee, perusing the racing form, and trying to sweet-talk Mary while he waited to take Evelyn to school, she had to suppress a laugh. But on that sunny Wednesday morning in April, as she clomped down to the kitchen, he inspired little more than irritation.

Her mother, who’d been frowning into a battered copy of their Fanny Farmer cookbook, glanced up at her daughter’s approach. The scowl didn’t change. There you are. Finally. Well, your breakfast is cold beyond edibility, for the third day in a row. Honestly, Evelyn, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately.

Why do we need a chauffeur? That’s what’s gotten into me.

Morris stood, took out his keys.

Evelyn stiffened, raising her chin. I can walk to school on my own. I have legs and good shoes and it’s a beautiful day.

I don’t want another argument, young lady. Take a piece of fruit, at least, and your lunch, and get in that car. Now.

But Mom...

Her face looked pinched and tired. Evelyn told herself to be more understanding. They hadn’t found a new housekeeper yet. It had been a long time since her mother did the cooking and cleaning, and it must have weighed heavily to let Mary go. No matter what had happened.

Mom, I can help you. Remember, before we moved here, and we used to shop and cook and do the cleaning, and I’d help you fold the laundry, and—

Evelyn! The suddenness of her mother’s tone shocked Evelyn silent. Her mother then blew out a breath and said, more softly, Please. Just go.

Fine. She raised her hands as if in surrender, then picked up her sack lunch. I’m going.

Wait.

Evelyn and Morris both stopped.

Morris, remember, Evelyn has her piano lesson this afternoon, but you’ll need to bring her back here first so she can change out of her school clothes. I hope that’s not a problem.

It’s no trouble, Mrs. R. I’d be happy to oblige.

In that moment, Evelyn hatched a plan to give Morris the slip, for at least a taste of her old freedom. Now all she needed was some luck.

ON WEDNESDAY AFTERNOONS, Evelyn had piano lessons with Mrs. Ferraro, a fusty old Italian woman who lived a few blocks off Church Avenue. It was just beyond her neighborhood, two stops on the trolley, where the kosher butchers and storefront shuls ended and the wonderful Italian bakeries began. When Evelyn was younger and they didn’t yet have a driver and a housekeeper, her mother would take her to Mrs. Ferraro’s apartment, and they’d split a cannoli on the trip home. On a nice day they would walk, to save trolley fare. But her mother never would say that was the reason. She would always say that walking is better, and it’s such a beautiful day, why shouldn’t we walk?

That had all changed. Being driven everywhere was a major point of irritation. It made her a pariah at school. Especially at a time when so many had lost everything in the Crash. If they weren’t immediately affected, they suffered the ramifications. The rich losing so much that their businesses closed, putting many people out of work. And here she was, being chauffeured around like a princess.

A bird in a cage.

A fish in a teacup.

She had to find a way to escape.

She thought of a story she’d read about a princess who was tired of being a princess and one day dressed as a commoner and escaped her castle to see how other people live. Of course Evelyn knew how other people lived, but it had been so long since she’d been able to simply walk around and do as she pleased.

Fate intervened the following Tuesday afternoon. Morris had brought her home from school and left to run errands for her father. Her mother was downstairs doing the laundry, cussing in Yiddish. No replacement had as yet been hired for Mary. The phone rang, and Evelyn’s heart jumped.

I’ll get that, Mom, she yelled from the second-floor landing and snapped up the heavy black receiver. Hello, Rosenstein residence. Evelyn speaking.

It was Mrs. Ferraro. She regretted to inform her that she had to cancel that week’s lesson. Her poor elderly mother had taken a fall, and she needed to go up to Yonkers and see to her. This is my chance. But Evelyn stilled her racing thoughts and said with as much gravity as she could muster that she and her family were sending their best wishes and a hope that she’d feel better soon.

As Evelyn was hanging up, her mother trudged toward the stairs, her hair a mess, trailing the scents of soap and laundry starch. Who called? Please tell me it was that agency and they found us a new housekeeper.

Sorry, Mom. Evelyn resisted the urge to grin. Wrong number.

ON PREVIOUS WEDNESDAY afternoons, when Morris delivered Evelyn safely home, Mary would offer him an iced tea or a sandwich while Evelyn changed out of her school clothes and gathered her piano books. That day, Evelyn tried to act as normally as she could, fingers shaking while she undid the buttons of her starchy white shirt and hung it and her pleated skirt in the closet. She pulled on a knit top and sailor pants—an outfit she’d normally select for a visit to Mrs. Ferraro’s apartment—slipped her feet into her favorite saddle shoes, and fixed her hair. She retrieved her books from the bench of the small upright in the corner of the living room and stowed them in her schoolbag.

Then she threw on a smile and breezed back into the kitchen, where her mother was drinking a cup of coffee and Morris daintily eating a sandwich. Which was not easy considering the size and condition of his hands, all those broken knuckles. Undoubtedly Morris did more for her father than drive his family around and take on the occasional innocent-sounding errand for her father’s business, but it was something that was never discussed at home, something she didn’t like to think about for too long.

She said her goodbyes, and they were off.

It was a much shorter trip than by streetcar. Evelyn missed riding the streetcars. She’d had so much fun on them as a child. Seeing the different people, hearing all those languages—Polish and Russian and Italian and Yiddish—the driver calling out the stops, watching the shops go by. It was like a front-row seat to the entire world. The best was when her mother took her to Manhattan to go shopping. They’d pass all the neighborhoods, the Jewish neighborhood where they lived, the Italian neighborhood, Irish, German...then change for the subway, which her mother said was an extravagance and not to expect it every time. But Evelyn didn’t care for the subway. It was claustrophobic and you couldn’t see outside and it smelled funny and she didn’t like the way the men looked at her.

Morris stopped in front of Mrs. Ferraro’s building. I’ll be back in an hour, he said, and she nodded and took up her bag and got out. It would look too suspicious if she turned around to make sure he’d left, so she marched up the steps and went in the big front door. She counted to thirty in her head, tried to still her breathing, and instead of walking upstairs to the third floor, kept walking through the first-floor corridor and out the back exit.

She was free. But she’d have to work fast.

She bought a fat, creamy cannoli from the first bakery she found, and asked the woman at the counter to cut it in half. She gave one half each to two little girls outside who were staring into the window with big hungry eyes. She’d also purchased a loaf of bread, which she deposited at the first soup kitchen she saw. She put five nickels into a Salvation Army man’s bucket. She thought about a streetcar ride, but maybe she’d do that another day. For this small, lovely slice of the loveliest afternoon she’d experienced on her own in a while, walking was delicious enough.

She sailed through Prospect Park, aching to visit